


should've worshipped her sooner

by Singofsolace



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mind Control, Rape/Non-con Elements, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:41:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24596935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Singofsolace/pseuds/Singofsolace
Summary: or: The Five People Zelda Worshipped + The One Person Who Worshipped HerA Zelda-centric fic written in response to Madam Spellman May's fourth prompt: "Worship"
Relationships: Faustus Blackwood/Zelda Spellman, Marie LaFleur (Chilling Adventures of Sabrina)/Zelda Spellman, Zelda Spellman & Mary Wardwell | Madam Satan | Lilith
Comments: 28
Kudos: 93
Collections: Madam Spellman May





	should've worshipped her sooner

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: While it seems a bit silly to credit Roberto Aguirre-Sacasa as the owner of these characters and this universe, considering he himself stole/borrowed/recreated them, let's give it a go. I do not own these characters, nor the universe in which they live. They belong to Archie Comics, which sent Roberto Aguirre-Sacasa himself a cease and desist for his blatant fanfic-turned-play, "Archie's Weird Fantasy," not too long ago. Please do not sue me; I am an unemployed adjunct professor writing fanfiction purely for entertainment purposes. I have very little money, but a whole lot of love for complicated female characters. While I do not wish to be sued, I would very much enjoy being given a position as show-runner for writing some great fanfic. I eagerly await your email.
> 
> Also, fair warning, this is a Zelda-centric piece, rather than a Madam Spellman-centric one. There are extremely dark themes; please take note of the tags. In this fic, Zelda is the eldest Spellman sibling, for reasons that will become immediately apparent.
> 
> Please comment to let me know if I should do more of these "Five Times (Plus One)" fics. This is the first time I'm trying my hand at one, and I'd love to hear what you think!

**One**

Alexander Augustus Spellman was a warlock of unprecedented skill and knowledge, the likes of which the Church of Night had not seen in centuries. It was said that he was blessed by the Dark Lord from the moment of his birth, evidenced by the witch’s mark placed prominently on his face, directly between his eyes. The mark was a sure sign from Satan himself that he would grow up to be the unholiest of messengers—a proud son of Lucifer and his teachings.

Zelda Spellman had always been her father’s daughter.

But the witch’s mark on Zelda’s right temple was not treated as the same sign of greatness, but rather of ownership. In fact, her father insisted it was proof that his wife had been “christened” on her wedding eve. Alexander Augustus treated it with disdain, knowing his firstborn bastard of a daughter was truly the Dark Lord’s seed, not his.

How else could one explain the red-haired, green-eyed child whose every tantrum caused the whole house to shake? Whose telekinesis shattered every mirror when she cried for milk that never seemed to satisfy? Whose aptitude for languages had her speaking in tongues even Alexander Augustus, Professor of Ancient Tongues and Sacred Scriptures at the Academy of Unseen Arts, couldn’t identify?

It was possible that Zelda Spellman was not a Spellman at all, but this did not stop her from worshipping her father like a god.

Her father was the High Priest’s closest advisor. Many believed that since the High Priest had no male heirs, it would be Brother Spellman who succeeded him instead. Zelda’s father had power she could only dream of obtaining for herself one day. She studied her Satanic Bible morning, noon, and night, with the hope that one day she could be not only an advisor, but the very first High Priestess of the Church of Night.

But a swiftly-delivered blow across the face taught Zelda never to dream above her station again.

“There has never been—will never be—a High _Priestess_ of the Church of Night,” her father growled, standing over her where she’d fallen on the kitchen floor. Her mother reached for her, but was stopped with a stern look from her husband. “Don’t ever let me hear you speak such blasphemy again!”

When her father stormed out of the kitchen and into the parlor, Zelda came back to herself long enough to wipe her mouth with the back of her hand, and was shocked when it came away with blood. Edward, ever the problem-solver, even at just eight years old, helped her to stand.

“Don’t worry, sister. One day, I’ll be the High Priest, and I’ll change things for you.”

* * *

**Two**

Zelda might be their father’s daughter, but Edward Spellman was most certainly _not_ their father’s son. To be sure, Alexander Augustus Spellman had never allowed another man to touch his wife after the Dark Lord’s claiming of her. In fact, he rarely let her out of the Spellman Mortuary (one bastard half She-Devil in the family was more than enough). There was no question of parentage… but that did not make Edward _his_.

Edward received his calling young, at just six years old. As such, he was baptized far younger than any Spellman before him. By twelve, he was a youth acolyte making breakthroughs in Demonology. By fifteen, he was considered the most likely successor to the current High Priest, despite his father having previously been favored for the position. By twenty, he had safely conjured demons who were considered un-conjurable.

Edward was a prodigy. Zelda worshipped him.

But Edward did not make it easy. He was always going against tradition, which made supporting him in public a tricky business. No matter how handsome and charismatic he was as Top Boy, there were always whispers of his revolutionary thinking, of his dangerous and often blasphemous ideas for how to change the Church of Night for the better.

Zelda worshipped him, but she also knew when to do it silently, behind closed doors. She was his secret weapon. By eighteen, she had learned how to wield her beauty as a political tool. There was no lover she wouldn’t take to advance her brother’s bid for High Priest—especially when she so hated the man currently in the position.

It all came to a breaking point when their family was selected to participate in the lottery for the Feast of Feasts. Hilda was still unbaptized, so only their mother and Zelda were eligible to participate in the drawing. But their father _insisted_ it must be Zelda. Apparently, it was a “special request” from the High Priest himself that Zelda represent the Spellman family this year.

Zelda’s heart climbed into her throat. Father Wormwood had made “special requests” from her before, though she had often tried to refuse them. Surely, he wouldn’t go so far as to have her ritually sacrificed as punishment?

“Can he do that?” demanded Edward, throwing down his napkin like a gavel.

“He’s the High Priest—the Dark Lord’s messenger here on earth. How dare you question him?” said Alexander Augustus, draining the whiskey from his glass with more speed than usual.

Zelda pushed her bowl of soup away. She didn’t think she’d be hungry ever again.

“But shouldn’t it be Zelda and Mother’s decision?” insisted Edward, looking to their mother for support, but Priscilla Spellman just shook her head.

“If the High Priest has asked for Zelda…” Priscilla’s voice drifted away, unable to look her children in the eye. “It isn’t wise to go against his wishes. I’m sure the Dark Lord will watch over Zelda. But if it is her time, it is her time.”

“How can you say that, Mum?” said Hilda as she slammed a plate of cookies on the table. “I won’t watch my sister be killed and eaten. It’s a _barbaric_ tradition—”

“You won’t have to, Hildie,” said Zelda, her voice calmer than she felt as she took her sister’s hand. “You haven’t been baptized yet. You don’t have to participate in the Feast.”

“When I’m High Priest, I’m going to outlaw Feast of Feasts,” declared Edward, banging his fist on the table. “We can’t afford to lose a witch every year. We don’t have enough of us left! Why are we killing the people we need most to keep the Church alive?”

“You can’t say I haven’t tried to get your sister settled,” said Alexander Augustus, refilling his whiskey glass to the very brim. “She should’ve had a child or two by now. I thought there’d be at least one bastard, what with how she shamelessly goes about bargaining with her body to further your blasphemous agenda, son.”

“She does _what_?” said Edward, his eyes going wide. Turning to his sister, he shook his head in disbelief. “He’s lying. Tell me he’s lying, Zelda?”

“What I do with my body is none of your business,” said Zelda coldly, though her words softened as she looked from her father to her brother. “Edward, you’ll be a great High Priest one day, but you still have so much to learn. I only wished I would be around to bolster you up when that day came.”

“Hang on—she hasn’t been selected yet! Why are you all acting like she’s already the Queen of the Feast?” said Hilda with panic in her voice. “What am I missing?”

The table went quiet. Hilda’s eyes flickered from father to mother to brother to sister, growing more fearful by the minute.

It was Priscilla Spellman who finally broke the silence.

“The Feast of Feasts hasn’t been a true lottery in quite some time, darling,” said their mother, with a haunted look. “Father Wormwood favors younger girls. There has never been a Queen of the Feast he didn’t hand-select in over a century.”

Hilda’s face went white. “But… but the Dark Lord…?”

“The Dark Lord isn’t the one who enforces the tradition, it’s the High Priest,” snarled Edward as he pushed himself bodily away from the table. “I think it’s time I went to the Council. He can’t keep making ‘special requests.’”

“Edward—” growled their father as his son stormed away, towards the living room. “You might think you’re the coven’s best conjurer since its inception, but you are not to summon the Council here, do you understand?”

But Edward was already gone. Zelda got up to follow him, ignoring her parents’ demands that she return to the table. After all, she was about to be Queen, wasn’t she? And the Queen got to do whatever she pleased.

“Edward, please,” said Zelda as her brother began to draw an incredibly complex pentagram on the floor. “You’ll never be able to convince the Council to outlaw the Feast. It’s a sacred tradition.”

“Do you want to _die_ , Zelda?” Edward shouted, throwing down his chalk and invading her space with a crazed look in his eye. “If you actually want to be sacrificed, I won’t stand in your way. But who’s going to stop him from doing the same thing to Hilda once you’re gone, huh?”

Zelda flinched back, as if his words had been a physical blow. “He… Father Wormwood would never pick _Hilda_ —”

“What about the Jefferson twins, back to back?” said Edward, returning to the pentagram once more. “Or little Abigail only a year after her mother? She’d only just had her baptism the week before! _Someone_ has to stop him from wiping out entire families. I thought you, at least, would be on my side.”

“I am,” insisted Zelda, unable to get the image of Hilda sitting on the throne of skulls with a dagger to her throat out of her head. “Edward, you know I’m always on your side.”

“Then help me.”

Zelda looked at him in disbelief. “How?”

“If we combine our summoning skills, I know we can conjure up Methuselah at the very least—”

“Are you mad?” said Zelda, though she was becoming resigned to the fact that her brother was going to do it, with or without her.

“Do you trust me?” asked Edward, extending his hand to her.

Zelda took it with a sharp nod. “Yes."

* * *

**Three**

Once Edward became High Priest, there was never a more devout or loyal member of the Church of Night than Zelda Spellman. She believed in his sermons—in his ability to translate the complex doctrine of the Dark Lord’s will into small and manageable acts of devotion and service.

Now that Wormwood was dead and her father buried deep in the ground with him, Zelda worshipped the Dark Lord with unmatched fervor. It was easier to be religious when the leadership of the Church was not nearly as tyrannical. Under Edward’s authority, the Church of Night blossomed as it had not done in centuries.

Zelda’s increased devotion did not go unnoticed by Lucifer. Every night she said her prayers by candlelight, asking him to help her walk the path of Night. Every evening he watched over her while she slept, planting seeds of his will inside her mind.

Zelda worshipped Satan. She would do anything he asked of her.

Or so he thought.

When it came time for her Dark Devotion, he expected little to no hesitation. She was, after all, his daughter.

He appeared in her room as she was getting dressed. He took great delight in watching her putter around the room in no more than a white slip. But he did not come simply to watch.

“It is high time you make your Dark Devotions to me,” the Dark Lord said, his voice a low and threatening rumble.

Zelda Spellman nearly jumped out of her skin. She crossed her arms over her chest, as if modesty weren’t a value of the False God.

“Dark Lord? I… I wasn’t expecting—forgive me, I—”

Lucifer did not waste time mincing words.

“Kill your brother, Edward Spellman.”

Zelda’s arms dropped to her sides as her mouth fell open. “But… Dark Lord, surely—”

“Do you dare question me?” Lucifer snarled, the room shaking with his fury.

Zelda fell to her knees in supplication. “No, no, of course not, My Lord—”

“Edward Spellman is writing a manifesto that is utter blasphemy. It is my will that he should never complete it. You must perform this Dark Devotion. You have been tasked.”

Zelda’s body trembled as she lifted her head. “Dark Lord, my brother is a true and righteous leader. Is there not some other task—”

“You cannot deny me. My will MUST be done.”

The vanity mirror shattered. The furniture shook. The Dark Lord towered over Zelda, unmoved by her tears. But just as he reached a claw into her hair, the door opened.

“Zelds! You’ll never _believe_ what’s happened!” Hilda paused, seeing Zelda in her slip, pale and trembling on the floor. “Hell hounds—what’s wrong?”

Hilda rushed to kneel beside her sister on the floor, placing a hand on her bare shoulder, which was immediately shrugged off.

“Zelds…? You’re scaring me. What you doin’ here on the floor? Why aren’t you dressed for black mass yet?”

“The Dark Lord was here,” Zelda whispered harshly as Hilda brushed her hair away from her face. “I’ve been tasked.”

“Oh, is that all? Did he give you a box with a button, too?” Hilda asked, relieved as she went to work fixing the vanity mirror.

“A box?” Zelda questioned, trying to stand on her shaky legs. Hilda offered a hand, which Zelda ignored.

“I know we’re not supposed to talk about Devotions, but—”

“Then don’t, Hildegard,” came a voice from the door. It was their mother, who seemed to have aged three centuries in the past fifty years since her husband had died and her son became High Priest. “Dark Devotions are a sacred contract between you and the Dark Lord. You are not to speak of them—not even to each other. Understood?”

“Yes, Mum,” said Hilda, immediately taking on the appearance of a scorned child, rather than a grown woman.

“Off you go. I need to speak with Zelda alone,” said Priscilla, ushering Hilda out the door.

“I’m sorry, Mother. I’m afraid I’m not up to going to mass today,” Zelda said, flinching as she felt the telltale scratch of the Devil’s Claw dig into her shoulder blade.

“You’ll go to black mass if I have to summon you there myself,” said Priscilla, her tone sharp as she helped Zelda step into her dress. “I can see you’ve already displeased Him. Your shoulder is inflamed. You’ll have to wear a shawl to hide it.”

“He only just gave me His task—”

“Don’t speak of it,” her mother hissed.

“But Mother, he’s told me to do something terrible, and it doesn’t make any sense—”

“No matter what he's asked of you, there’s nothing to do but perform the Dark Devotion,” said Priscilla, taking Zelda gently by the chin to ensure her daughter looked her in the eyes. “Preferably with a smile.”

“What happens if I refuse?” said Zelda, rolling her shoulders as the pain of the mark flared up again.

“Horrible things will befall you, your family, and those around you, the longer you make him wait.”

With that, her mother transferred them directly to the desecrated church. Edward greeted them at the door with a kiss on both of their cheeks.

For days, Zelda contemplated how she was going to fulfill her Dark Devotion. She would never get away with killing Edward outright—she had to make it look like an accident. But how? And once she had done, how would she ever forgive herself?

On the sixth day, the Dark Lord sent her a message. She returned to the mortuary to find her familiar, Vinegar Tom, completely petrified.

“Vinegar Tom!” Zelda cried out, taking his lifeless body in her arms.

“I warned you,” said Priscilla, unmoved by Zelda’s tears. “This is only the beginning. If you care about your family at all, you’ll do as the Dark Lord wishes.”

“I _can’t_ , Mother!” said Zelda, cradling Vinegar Tom’s body to her chest. “I won’t do it!”

Zelda’s back seared with pain as the Devil’s Claw fired up once more. Priscilla narrowed her eyes upon hearing the sharp hiss of pain.

“You’re no Spellman at all if you’d put your own pride and safety above that of your family.”

“This has nothing to do with pride,” Zelda said as she carried Vinegar Tom to his bed and placed him down with reverence. “I won’t do His bidding. Why won’t he just kill me and be done with it?”

“You’ll be surprised to hear that that _isn’t_ how it works, Zelda Fiona Spellman. You signed your name away. He _owns_ you—owns us.”

“He doesn’t own me. I am my own person. The Church of Night is meant to celebrate _free will_.”

“Free will?” Priscilla scoffed. “Just wait until you get married. Then you’ll know all you need to know about free will.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” said Zelda, cringing as the agony searing across her shoulder blade increased tenfold.

“Everything has a price, Zelda, and you can rest assured your dog _isn’t it_ ,” said Priscilla scathingly, before turning on her heel and leaving Zelda alone to contemplate her words.

Things escalated rather quickly after that. Hilda came down with Scarlet Fever. Delinquents set the mortuary on fire. Their cousin was killed by witch hunters, leaving behind a derelict son who was always getting into trouble.

Zelda pleaded with the Dark Lord to give her another task. She spent all of her time on her knees, begging for forgiveness, for absolution. She would do anything—anything at all— _except_ murder her brother.

Her prayers went unanswered for the longest time. Hilda suffered sickness after sickness. Their mother was robbed at knife point by a couple of mortal football players keen on proving their masculinity. Edward and Diana failed again and again to conceive a child.

All the while, the Dark Lord was always whispering in Zelda’s ear, trying to bend her to his will. She refused and refused and refused.

And so, Zelda gained a taste for self-flagellation. She ripped the flesh of her back into shreds, so that it was impossible to tell the open wounds from the Devil’s Claw. She went out drinking until dawn, and had sex with anyone who would have her—even mortal men and women. The risk was great; relationships with mortals were perilous at best. She held the fate of her family and her entire coven in her hands, but she couldn’t be made to care.

Finally, Zelda decided enough was enough. She prepared a poison from ingredients she found in Hilda’s garden. Earlier that day, she’d had to treat Diana for yet another miscarriage, though Hilda was the one who ought to have done it, as her official midwife. But Hilda was unavailable, since she was currently in London dealing with their wayward nephew who had tried to blow up the Vatican and been subsequently sentenced to 75 years of house arrest.

Tragedy after tragedy had befallen the Spellman family.

It was time to put an end to it all.

“You would take your own life?” said Lucifer, appearing in Zelda’s bedroom where she sat swirling the poison in her whiskey glass.

“To save my family from this endless cycle of suffering—yes,” confirmed Zelda, staring at the green liquid that swirled and swirled in her hand.

“It’s been years—why give up now?” said Lucifer, genuine curiosity clear in his voice. Zelda couldn’t appreciate the irony of having perplexed the Devil himself. “You’ve made it this long and suffered so much for your insolence. I repeat: why now?”

“I’m tired,” said Zelda, cringing at her own honesty. “I see no point in playing this game with you any longer. Drag my soul to hell and be done with it.”

The Dark Lord stared at her, seeming to be deep in thought. “You realize I will just task another with your brother’s murder?”

“Yes.”

“So, what is the point?” demanded Lucifer. “Your death would be meaningless.”

“My death will end our contract,” said Zelda, bringing the poison to her mouth.

Time seemed to stand still as Zelda played chicken with the Dark Lord. At least, Lucifer assumed it was a game of chicken. She wouldn’t actually kill herself, would she? She was crucial for the next stage of his plans. Not to mention it was possible the half-angelic blood rushing through her veins would be entirely unaffected by the poison. But Lucifer needed Zelda to be ignorant of her true parentage, if his future plans were ever to come to fruition.

Just as Zelda tipped the liquid into her mouth, Lucifer vanished it.

“Zelda Fiona Spellman, I have a new task for you.”

* * *

**Four**

Zelda Spellman didn’t love Faustus Blackwood. He had always been a bit of a tyrant, even when they were children. Besides, witches were not supposed to love anyone except the Dark Lord himself, and Zelda wasn’t in the habit of crossing the Dark Lord in her middle age.

But if Blackwood wanted to be worshipped as some sort of prophet, Zelda would try to oblige. She had worked for years to bring the Spellman family back to the height of its power—she wasn’t about to throw it all away just because Faustus was showing the depths of his madness one strange decision at a time.

Sabrina’s attempt to stop their wedding rankled. The fact that her brother was dead under mysterious circumstances was hardly news to Zelda. Faustus might’ve killed Edward Spellman—or he might not have. Zelda would never ask a warlock to reveal a Dark Devotion, if that was what it was—not after her own had spanned the course of years, and left several casualties in its wake. In the end, she'd known before anyone else that Edward was slotted for death. If it was Faustus who had finally completed the devotion... well. She was in no position to judge him for executing the Dark Lord's will.

She did miss her familiar, though, who'd been a casualty of that chapter of her life she'd left firmly in the past. Vinegar Tom would never be restored to her, but that didn’t mean he had to miss out on her wedding. She sat him proudly near the front pew.

The trip to Rome had been marked by an eerie kind of anticipation. Neither she nor Faustus seemed to know what to expect from the trip. The dead body of the Antipope felt like a physical weight between them, even though it was deep in the belly of the airplane, tucked out of sight.

When they arrived at the Italian hotel, Zelda had hardly taken off her coat when Faustus said he had a present for her. The music box was a strange gift, as Zelda found it a bit infantilizing. It was the sort of thing one would give to a child, not a bride on the first night of her honeymoon. But what did men know of gift-giving?

And so, Zelda opened the box.

And the music played.

And Faustus asked her to dance.

And she twirled and twirled and twirled.

And somewhere during the first notes of the melody, her mind slipped beneath the surface of the Caligari spell.

And Faustus peeled off her clothes like she was a delicate thing, like he was afraid she might break.

And when he asked her to worship his body, she could make no objection.

Everything was all so careful and soft and light—nothing like their sexual relationship had been in recent years. He asked her to kneel, and she did—giggling all the while.

(When had she ever giggled?)

And she worshipped his body, because he asked her to, and the spell left no room for refusal.

And _he_ worshipped _her_ , too. He put his mouth on her until she came again and again and again. His tongue was skilled and reverent but that was exactly what Zelda did not understand, because he had never been so gentle in all their time together. Zelda wanted to ask him _why, why, why_ , but she had no voice except to say:

_Yes, husband! Yes, please! Yes! Thank you, husband!_

While her mind screamed:

_No! No, please, no! No!_

And she almost wished he would hurt her—the soft requests and sweet suggestions and earnest commands all seemed to come from a Faustus she hadn’t known since her very first Lupercalia. He wasn’t himself, and neither was she, and it was enough to make her want to vomit.

She would’ve preferred it if he had ripped her clothes off. It would’ve been bearable if he had pried her legs open and forced himself between them. Zelda thought she might have understood if he had taken her like an animal, if he spent his anger and frustration on her body like he had in the past.

If it hurt, she could drift away. If it hurt, she could pretend to be somewhere else. If it hurt, she could hover above her body, and take solace in the fact that she wouldn’t cum from the brutality of it all.

She knew how to handle a violation.

But the caresses? The tender fingers? The polite way he asked: _May I?_

and

_Would you like that?_

and

_Please?_

The way he called her _wife_ and brushed her hair and laced their fingers…

…the way he smiled and focused so much on _her_ pleasure…

It was all too much, because she could _feel_ it. She felt every climax like a physical tide; she was trapped in a body wracked with pleasure while her mind threatened to shatter under the strain.

She didn’t want him to be gentle and considerate and decent when she had no power to refuse it—she wanted it to _hurt, hurt, hurt._

She worshipped him with her mouth and hands and body, and he returned the favor, all while her consciousness screamed and begged and _pleaded_ for it to stop.

She didn’t want it to feel good. She didn’t want him to make her body tremble with orgasm after orgasm. She wanted him to break her body—leave physical bruises and draw blood so that she could point to them and say: _this was a violation._

She wanted him to ruin her body, not her mind.

How foolish she was to think that he wouldn’t succeed in doing both.

* * *

**Five**

Zelda didn’t have as much trouble as she thought she would in adapting to a new religious order. Ever since her Dark Devotion she’d known that there might come a day when she no longer worshipped Lucifer Morningstar, and the Children of Night who survived Faustus’ poisoning of the coven were surprisingly flexible. She sincerely hoped their adaptability wouldn’t prove to equate to a certain lack of true faith.

After all, praying to Lilith was the Satanic equivalent of a Hail Mary pass. Not only that, but their prayers went entirely unanswered.

Unanswered, that is, until Lilith showed up at the Academy’s door, seeking shelter.

Lilith looked different. Sounded different. Seemed entirely… different. She had the air of a trapped animal about her. Under normal circumstances, Zelda would be inclined to help a woman in such a state.

But Lilith wasn’t just “a woman,” she was a biblical figure. She was the first woman—the first witch—and she ought to be… ought to be…

Zelda didn’t know what she ought to be, but she knew Lilith wasn’t in the position to be asking any favors of the coven she meddled with and then discarded when she no longer needed them.

Well, now the tables had turned, and Zelda wasn’t in a particularly forgiving mood.

“But you must give me sanctuary. You worship me.”

Zelda was tired of worship.

“And what good has that done us?”

What good had it ever done _anyone_? Zelda had worshipped many people in her life, and they’d all turned out to be utter disappointments. Better to take charge and be one’s own leader than to spend a lifetime devoted to the wrong person.

“No. Find someplace else to hide.”

“You… you’re a pathetic lot. Hanging your onions to keep the Dark Lord at bay. No. No, I think I won’t stay here. What good are witches against his wrath? No, what I need is a good Christian woman.”

Zelda watched Lilith go with shame bubbling in the pit of her stomach. There was something about Lilith’s response that needled at Zelda’s conscience. To seek sanctuary and then turn on a dime…

Lilith needed her. It was nice to feel needed.

“Wait,” Zelda said, stopping Lilith in her tracks. The dark-haired woman seemed startled—and hopeful—that Zelda might change her mind. “I suppose I’m in no position to refuse you. I have hedge-witches taking shelter in the Academy as we speak. What’s one more?”

“I’m not a hedge-witch!” Lilith snarled, though her eyes softened as Zelda reached out a hand to take Lilith’s elbow.

“I know.”

* * *

**(One)**

Marie had surely kissed every single inch of skin Zelda had on her body—and yet, she was still working her tongue over the sensitive spot where Zelda’s neck met her shoulder. It made her body shiver in delicious ecstasy, but the sensation was also a bit… well… overwhelming.

Zelda did not like to be overwhelmed. At least, not since the music box.

She’d had plenty of lovers over the years, but she had never had one quite so… thorough… as Marie. At first, it was hard to get used to Marie’s intense, unwavering love. But as time went on, Zelda began to trust that Marie’s passion wasn’t of the variety that would burn everything she knew to the ground.

_“Chérie?”_

Zelda hummed in response, her muscles deliciously sore as she stretched her arms over her head and turned so that she was facing Marie.

Marie’s pupils dilated with want. Zelda never tired of seeing pure lust in her lover’s eyes.

“You have been silent for quite some time, my love,” said Marie, placing a kiss on Zelda’s breast bone.

“I was lost in thought, but I’m back now,” said Zelda, yawning. Marie had worked her body into a frenzy again and again—and now she was so pleasantly tired, she couldn’t imagine keeping her eyes open for much longer.

“Well, now that you have returned to me, we can start again, eh?” said Marie as she kissed from Zelda’s breast bone down to her navel.

“I’m afraid I’m not as young as I used to be, Marie,” said Zelda breathlessly as Marie’s lips traveled lower.

“That is good news for me, _mon coeur_ —I have always preferred older women.” Marie’s eyes sparkled as she lifted one of Zelda’s legs over her shoulder.

“Marie, please know that I am not complaining—it’s just that I’ve wanted to return the favor for a while now, but you keep— _ahhhh_.”

Zelda’s words were lost as Marie lavished attention on her overstimulated clit.

“Marie, I’m serious, it’s your turn to—” Zelda’s sentence was lost to a moan.

“Let me worship you, _chérie_ ,” said Marie, her lips quirked in half-smirk. “There will be plenty of time for making up later.”

After a few more half-hearted protests, Zelda gave herself over to the heady sensation of being treated like a goddess. For the first time in her life, after centuries of hardship and nearly being crushed beneath the weight of what others expected of her, she finally felt… _worthy_ of such devotion.


End file.
